Thistle Down Read online

Hands shaking as much as her middle, she made a note to make sure Dick mowed the lawn.

  Her lunch wanted to come up. She wished now she hadn’t eaten the second half of the chicken salad on homemade whole wheat bread. She’d eaten no red meat and only organic fruits and vegetables, free-range chicken, or wild-caught fish for so long she didn’t think she could digest anything else. But today, even her wholesome diet felt like a lump of processed glue.

  She needed a long walk in the fresh air. But the emails for the coming week of festivities kept piling up.

  The phone rang again.

  “Damn.” Dusty stared at the malevolent tool of society. She blushed at her own bad language. Thought a moment. “Double damn. Skene County Historical Society,” she answered sweetly.

  “Desdemona, why didn’t you answer your cell phone? I’ve left several messages today.” Her mother’s voice sounded fuzzy over the long-distance connection.

  “Sorry, Mom. I turned it off while I was doing a tour. We’re very busy to today with the start of Festival and all.” Dusty pulled her phone out of her pocket and flicked on the power. Sure enough there was one, and only one, message from an unknown overseas prefix.

  “Oh, well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure you made time to go to the Health Food Market. You can’t trust the local grocer to have truly organic food. And the farmers’ market isn’t much better. They say they use natural fertilizers, but you never know. And did you find the bottle of hand sanitizer in the back of the pantry? It’s not as good as soap and water, but in an emergency . . .”

  “Yes, Mom. Dick went to the store on Monday.” She crossed her fingers at the little lie. She’d bought organic foods from the local farmers’ market last Saturday and found they tasted no different and felt no different from the more expensive specialty market. “I know where the hand sanitizer is. Now I really have to go. We’re very busy . . .”

  “Of course. Just checking. See you in a couple of weeks. Oh, and my college roommate’s son will call you. He wants to escort you to the Ball . . .” The rest of her words dissolved in static. She dropped the receiver into its cradle.

  Dusty breathed heavily and resisted the urge to run to the basement. She really did need to tackle some of those emails. But the privacy she craved wasn’t about to happen in Joe’s office. Was Norton’s Family Diner any less private than this! Everyone in town ended up there at some point in the day, even if only for coffee on the run.

  “Can I talk to you a minute, Dusty?” Meggie opened the door a crack and spoke meekly.

  “Um, I have twenty-seven, no make that thirty-one emails to answer.” Dusty bit her lower lip.

  “This will only take a minute.” Meggie squeezed into the office, keeping the door closed as much as possible. She kept looking over her shoulder as if needing to keep this visit secret.

  Curiosity replaced Dusty’s annoyance at the invasion of her space.

  “What’s up, Meggie?” Dusty leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk. “This hesitancy isn’t like you.”

  “I know. It’s just that . . . just that I need some advice and you’re a friend.”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, I know I don’t usually bother you with this kind of thing, but . . . but you see, there’s this guy. This guy from school. He’s really cute and everything. We could have true Pixie love, I think . . .” She trailed off, looking as puzzled as Dusty felt.

  “And you’re asking me for advice, why?” She decided to ignore the reference to Pixies.

  “You’re a friend—and an adult. It just seems like you know a lot about people, even though you don’t get out much and all.”

  Like never, Dusty thought.

  “I know a lot about the people who founded this town,” Dusty hedged.

  “But people are people, whether they live now or a hundred fifty years ago. And I need to know how to make this guy notice me.”

  “Invite him to the Ball,” Dusty said flatly. “Girls are allowed to do that now. Especially since it’s work related and you work here.” That was stretching it a bit. Meggie rarely worked even though she showed up every day.

  “That’s a good idea. But how do I know he’ll come?”

  “You don’t. Not unless you ask.” Dusty had answered similar questions from the girls, but usually through email and their tutoring sessions. She smiled a bit inwardly. These girls were her friends. Sort of. And, just like friends, they . . .

  Oh, God, this was starting to sound like a setup. Who was going to be the one to comment that Dusty should follow her own advice and ask Chase to accompany her to the Masque Ball?

  “Thanks, that’s a really good idea.” Meggie retreated with her usual determination and eagerness to return to the lounge and her can of cola. She left the door open a crack.

  Dusty shifted to look at the computer screen. Her eye caught the blinking red light on line two. She hadn’t heard it ring during her conversations, and the girls had strict orders not to tie up the lines with personal calls.

  She pushed the chair away from the desk to go investigate—she dismissed the urge to lift the receiver and listen in—when M’Velle slipped into the office with the same furtive over-the-shoulder-glances as Meggie.

  “May I speak with you?” M’Velle asked. Dusty noticed how her diction and grammar were more precise than Meggie’s more casual style.

  “Yes.” Dusty dragged out the word, suddenly suspicious that someone wanted her distracted and off the phone.

  “It’s about my college application essay,” M’Velle said, approaching the desk more decisively than her initial entrance.

  At least this was something Dusty felt qualified to discuss. “What about the essay? I thought you’d finished it and were just waiting for a work recommendation from Mr. Newberry.”

  “Well, yes. But now there’s this scholarship I found out about and I want to change my essay to fit.”

  “What scholarship?”

  “DAR.”

  “Daughters of the American Revolution. They don’t usually give those to anyone who can’t prove they had an ancestor who fought in the Revolutionary War.”

  “I know. And finding documentation for blacks prior to 1864 is almost impossible. There are only a few bookkeeping entries of the purchase and sale of slaves, often without names. But I’m not all black. My grandfather on my mom’s side is white, and very proud of being able to trace his ancestry back to the Civil War. I think I can prove his family owned land in South Carolina back to the mid-1700s.”

  “So what about your essay?”

  “I want to write about the difficulty in tracing my black ancestry because slaves weren’t citizens and records of births and deaths, and parentage is so spotty, especially if a baby was sired by a white. It’s worse than trying to trace the kings and queens of Pixie. And then I want to compare it to how easy it was to find out about my grandfather’s family.” M’Velle’s eyes lit up with excitement.

  “Sounds like a great topic.” Dusty leaned forward, equally excited. She wanted to bounce ideas off the wall with this girl and help her come up with a solid research plan and outline.

  “But will the DAR approve of it?”

  “That’s another question entirely. My mom might know. She’s a member.”

  “Oh. I thought you knew about every scholarship available.” M’Velle’s expression fell, and her eyes grew dark with resentment and disappointment.

  “Let me send out a couple of emails to people who might have some answers for you,” Dusty offered. “Mom’s in England for the summer, and she’s never been good about checking her email or answering it.” Though she called every week. Sometimes twice. Or three times.

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course. You do good work; study hard now that you’re over your sophomore slump. I want you to succeed.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Carrick.” M’Velle looked as if she might reach across the desk and hug Dusty. Then she thought better of it and straightened her posture again
. “Can I run my research notes past you? Make sure I’m not jumping to conclusions without facts to back it up?”

  “Certainly. Bring them to work tomorrow.”

  The girl waved blithely and retreated. She, too, showed much more determination in her step upon leaving than arriving.

  “Uh, M’Velle, is this sudden interest in consulting me a setup?”

  M’Velle paused at the door. She looked over her shoulder, directly into Dusty’s eyes. “No. We just want to let you know that we value your friendship.” Then she vanished and closed the door with a firm snick of the latch.

  Dusty checked the phone. The red light on line two had blinked off as she stared at it.

  “Mission accomplished, whatever you two are up to.” Now to call Dick and figure out a way to send him to buy Thistle some clothes and then figure out what to do with her. She almost wished Dick was still dating Phelma Jo occasionally—though their relationship had been more off than on since high school. PJ Nelson had an innate sense of fashion. Not something learned because she didn’t have anyone at home to learn it from. But when it came to sizes, colors, and cut, PJ was the one Dusty wished she could consult.

  Five

  PHELMA JO NELSON PEERED over the top of the résumé she held in front of her face. The applicant, who stood so straight and yet so casual in front of her desk, certainly delighted the eye more than the neatly typed words on the paper. Haywood Wheatland. What kind of name was that?

  “I don’t need an assistant,” she said finally. As enticing as this man was, her organization was as complete as she wanted it to be. Adding another body, or a too inquisitive mind, would upset the balance she’d built. Her plans were too close to fruition.

  “Yes, you do,” Haywood Wheatland said in a light baritone that seemed to sing the words. Then he smiled.

  Phelma Jo found her gaze glued to his marvelous teeth and full sensual lips. She couldn’t look anywhere else if she wanted to. Daydreams of stripping off his clothes—the epitome of style without shouting expensive, a look she had perfected—and throwing him onto her desk seemed so simple and right.

  “Why do I need an assistant?” she finally choked out, breaking the thrall of his physical beauty.

  “Not just any assistant. You need me.” He paused, the animation in his face and posture froze for half a heartbeat, barely long enough to notice.

  But Phelma Jo noticed. She’d trained herself to take note of, and advantage of, every change in body language.

  “Not just any assistant. You need me,” he repeated with a widening of that ingratiating smile.

  Phelma Jo forced herself to read the résumé again. An associate degree from a community college she’d never heard of. Standard word processing skills, including minor bookkeeping. Nothing exceptional. Just another wannabe business major looking for a job to fund the next degree.

  “You can’t do anything for me that I can’t hire out of any high school class at half the wages you request.” She threw down the résumé, letting it slide across her pristine desktop as a signal the interview was over.

  But, oh, he was delicious to look at. He’d add something decorative to her very functional staff of real estate agents, accountants, and paralegals, all hired for their skills and because none of them outshone Phelma Jo herself.

  “You need me because I know how to put a crimp . . .” Again that annoying frozen pause. “You need me because I know how to put a crimp in Desdemona Carrick’s Masque Ball forever, and at the same time fund your campaign in the next mayoral election.”

  Haywood Wheatland planted himself in the guest chair in front of the desk without invitation, as if he belonged there, had always belonged there.

  “How . . . how did you know I plan to run for mayor?”

  “Gossip.” He smiled, flashing those gleaming teeth that seemed to reflect every color in the office. “Gossip. Besides, it’s the next logical step for you.”

  “Tell me more about this gossip.” Phelma Jo leaned forward eagerly. “And your plans for Dusty Carrick.”

  “Am I hired?”

  Phelma Jo fished an employment contract out of her desk drawer, made a few adjustments to it, and handed it to him for his signature.

  “You’ve heard, I presume,” Haywood said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “that Ms. Carrick has taken under her wing, a beautiful and mysterious woman . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Dusty is incapable of talking to a stranger, let alone aiding one. Unless she can do it online.”

  “Ah, but she volunteers at the senior center . . . volunteers at the senior center talking about history and gathering stories from them about olden times. And she gives tours to the public. She may not like it, but she does it. She does it if she can talk history and nothing else. And now this Thistle Down woman is her newest best friend.”

  “I can’t see why everyone in town thinks the world of Ms. Timid who talks to shadows and jumps into them at first sight of a stranger. She’s pathetic and so self-involved she doesn’t know the meaning of true friendship,” Phelma Jo snorted. She should know.

  “This is pretty?” Thistle held up a brassiere by one end with two fingers, skeptically examining the sturdy elastic, sheer fabric, and filmy lace. “I could make a great game of launching Pixies to the far side of The Ten Acre Wood with this.”

  Dusty suppressed a deep laugh. “It . . . um . . . is designed to support your . . . um . . .”

  Thistle twisted the undergarment so that it hung correctly. “My boobs,” she said flatly.

  “Yeah.”

  Thistle looked from the bra to her chest and back again. “How do you balance with all that weight up front and no wings to lift you from the back?”

  She looked totally bewildered. She kept rocking back on her heels and widening her stance as if afraid of falling forward. Good thing Dick had bought only flatheeled sandals for Thistle instead of the high-heeled torture devices he usually admired on women.

  “Well, they grow slowly.” Dusty glanced down at her meager display. Thistle was much better endowed, but not out of proportion to her height and slender frame. “We get used to it gradually, I guess,” Dusty replied. “Look, most of the dresses Dick bought for you have halter tops or spaghetti straps. You can’t wear a normal bra with them. The straps will show and that looks ugly.”

  “Yeah. I have noticed a lot of teenage girls with that look. I wondered what the extra straps were for.”

  They giggled together as Thistle mimicked the girls who constantly fussed with their straps, trying to hide them, when the action only attracted more attention to their dishabille.

  “But the fabric?” Thistle shook her head. “It feels hot. I don’t think I’m going to wear this contraption.” She flung the bra into the corner of the room.

  “Try this dress.” Dusty pulled a creamy sundress printed with big splotchy purple flowers out of a plastic bag from a large discount store. “It’s cotton, so the fabric will breathe, unlike the polyester in the bra. The colors are right for you, and the top is relatively modest. You won’t flash a lot of cleavage.”

  Thistle obediently lifted the hem of her borrowed black T-shirt, exposing her entire body without a flash of embarrassment or modesty.

  Dusty lowered her eyes as she fished in the other five bags for panties. Her face grew hot, and sweat trickled down her back. Body modesty was something Thistle would have to learn living in this household, with Dick’s bedroom just across the hall.

  What would they do if Thistle was still here when Mom and Dad came home from England next month?

  Her fingers flipped aside several dresses, packages of hose, another bra. Two more pairs of sandals, one beige, one dark purpley blue. No panties. None! How could Dick forget such an essential item?

  This enterprise was getting to be too much. Way too much.

  “Let me get you something from my room.” She dashed out of the spare bedroom of the big old house that had been in her family for at least four generations. The room
she’d slept in for as long as she could remember was positioned on the other side of the bathroom, across from the master bedroom, and close to the back stairs that led to the kitchen. For the first time in a very long time she noticed, actually noticed, the matching pink curtains and bedspread covered in twirling ballerinas. The bed ruffle and bolster pillow ruffles were white eyelet. Chipped white paint graced her headboard, dressing table, and bookshelves. She hadn’t changed a thing since she and Mom had so carefully selected the furnishings for her fifth birthday.

  Had her life stagnated as badly as her décor?

  From her own underwear drawer she found an unopened package of three pairs of white cotton panties. As she pulled them from beneath neatly piled, still serviceable garments she began to laugh.

  At herself. At Dick for forgetting to buy panties. He probably never noticed if women wore them or not, even the women he so casually bedded.

  Something to taunt him about. In private. Still laughing, she returned to Thistle’s room and presented her with the underwear as if bestowing the crown jewels.

  With more laughter, and no embarrassment, she explained their usage. And while she was at it, she found a box of tampons and demonstrated the toilet and sink.

  Their laughter felt natural; embarrassment fled. Suitably clad, Thistle began rummaging through the plastic bags. She jerked her hand away before she’d touched a single garment.

  “What?” Dusty asked. She grabbed Thistle’s hand and watched a burning flush spread from her fingers to the back and across the palm. “Let’s get some cold water on this.”

  “The bags, and the second dress, they’re fake.” Thistle sighed with relief as cold water from the bathroom tap flowed over her hand and arm.

  “Synthetics. Of course! I bet you’ll have trouble with preservatives and processed food, too. Good thing you came to me. Most every other home in town would poison you in about three minutes.”

  “Why do people poison themselves?” Thistle asked, cocking her head.

  Dusty shrugged. “Convenience, shelf-life, laziness. I’m not sure. But since I was sick, Mom and Dad have done their best to keep me from getting sick again. We eat only natural foods and use only natural fabrics. It’s hard eating out and harder buying inexpensive clothes or towels, or even upholstery that aren’t synthetic. Mom took out all the wall-to-wall carpeting because it holds dust and mold and is largely artificial fibers.”